Dead Ends
by lucidly
Summary: Last breaths, last moves, dead ends. A series of one shots about the deaths of major characters, even though I know you'll hate me for it.


**Warnings: Major Character Deaths follow. I know you guys will hate me for it, but I had to, okay?**

**Oh yeah, and I don't own the Hunger Games, yadayadayada**

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I duck under the branches of the overhanging trees, which cast dark and lanky shadows that stalk me in the depths of the forest. I clutched my bow in an iron-tight grasp, and my last three arrows in the opposite hand. I leap and dodge like a ballet dancer in full swing, legs stretching out to meet the leaf-littered ground. Moonlight seeped in through the near-bare trees. Birds, most likely jabberjays, call out into the night, screeching out eerie secrets and private conversations. I hear the sound of rushing water and follow it.

I did not know who else was there with me until my eye caught the torn fabric that was caught onto a branch. From a baker's apron. It even smelled of the exotic spices and herbs that they used. That Peeta had most certainly used. Should I have thought? Should I have remembered that Peeta was most certainly not wearing an apron in the dead of the night?

But I no longer care if there is a predator out, if they are miles away or paces behind. "Peeta! Peeta! Can you hear me?" I shriek desperately, brushing away branches that smacked me back in the face as I sprint deeper into the woods, my sore feet catching onto stray roots that prodded from the ground, making me lose my footing several times. I stumble blindly, ignoring the numbness spreading up from the balls of my feet and the vegetation that nipped at my skin. All that was on my mind was Peeta. "Where are you!"

After aimlessly wandering in what I think to be a circle, I stop, the sound of my heavy breathing and pounding heart filling my ears. I'm not sure if my heart was pounding because of it's yearning to see Peeta alive, safe, or because of the muscle-pulling exercise. Despite the awful chill that runs up and down my spine, I wipe a bead of sweat that starts to make a trail down my jawbone, making the various bruises and scratches on my face sting. My clothing is dampened with sweat and blood.

Everywhere is burning.

My busted lip, which I had split open when I fell face first on the ground after tripping on an erect root.

The new, yellow-toned bruises that speckle my torso, legs, and neck, from my many run-ins with large tree brambles, whose rough bark had also made defined cuts of respectable, and painful, sizes.

My lungs and muscles ache with fatigue, the harsh, cold air whipping at my lungs with every breath. I do not know if I regret my rush of adrenaline that urged me forward like a marathon runner, or resting to take a break; allowing the pain to catch up with me.

But mostly, it was my heart that was pained the most. Every sharp intake of icy air, every wound that stings, every bruise that made me wince with every step could not compare to the longing, the wanting, in my heart. _Peeta is still alive, Peeta is nearby, somewhere_, I tell myself, for reassurance. Reassurance that Peeta could only be steps away, not miles and miles. Healthy and uninjured, not cold and dead.

I recited what happened in my head. My life story. My last chapter.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. I lived in the Victor's Village, located on the edge of District Twelve, which no longer exists. It was bombed by President Snow. My best friend is Gale Hawthorne, but he is long gone. My mom was captured by Snow and is probably dead. Me and Peeta are the only ones left. We were Reaped into the 76th Hunger Games as punishment for our actions in the rebellion. I am all alone-_

I never really finish that thought. I look up from my feet suddenly, my vision quickly becoming unfocused and hazy. My gray eyes meet brilliant green ones as I stare my killer down. It was Deema, a fourteen-year-old tribute from district 7. Then I glance down again, my eyes catching the brilliant silver edges of a four-sided chakram. I drop to my knees, yet I was not quite dead, but the look in my eyes said otherwise. I know what happens next.

Deema strode to me carefully, her light feet inaudible to my ears. She tilts my face up, holding my chin gently. And in her eyes I see pity and remorse. "I'm sorry," I think I heard the other girl say. I'm not quite sure. A faint buzzing taints everything I hear, while my vision continues to dull.

"I understand," I whimper. I know what happens next.

Deema draws her dagger, a wicked sharp blade of silver, it's edges sparkling with diamond. This girl must be a sponsor-favorite, because diamonds are very hard to come by. She draws me in for an embrace; she knows that I was weak and could not harm her in such a way as to eliminate her from the Games. I comply, shuddering as my cold body hugs Deema's. A sharp pain at the back of my neck told me that Deema had plunged the dagger about three inches into my spine. I am dead before my limp body falls into Deema's, blood spilling from my neck.

"I'm sorry," the other girl says, wiping blood onto her pants.

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**How many times to I have to apologize? I know you're probably angry at me. If you want me to kill another main character, leave your suggestions in the review box :)**


End file.
